


Second Chances (Grievous x Fem!Reader)

by Sindrak



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Droids are cute little beans, F/M, I mean probably that's the only one I'm not sure we'll see, I'm gonna shut up and actually tag now, Idk what I'm doing but I'm having fun so, Reader doesn't know what she's doing, Reader is a little lady and doesn't realize she's a cutie, Reader-Insert, Set during the Clone Wars but everyone is from the movies because they look way more radical, Un-star wars-y humor, bug man - Freeform, burly British friend, characters and tags to be added, im literally just typing whatever comes to mind, irregular updates, more OC's - Freeform, reader is female, reader must repent by learning how to be a good person, smol droid friend, some mild curses just in case for you smol ones out there, sorry if the big man seems ooc I'm trying to make him squishy but also in character, sorry my dudes, there's one OC and he's your best bot friend, your Squad is gonna help you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9103885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindrak/pseuds/Sindrak
Summary: You collect a lot of things. Good luck? Definitely not one of them. People like you, a thieving, petty scavenger with a hoarding problem, don't deserve to be spared, especially not by General Grievous, of all people. He offers you a proposition you can't refuse, and now you work as his personal mechanic. Slowly, your perspective changes, and you find yourself wanting to not only help yourself, but him as well. Everyone deserves a second chance, after all.





	1. Worst. Moving Day. Ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars or its related properties. I ain't makin' a cent off this, it's just for fun since there are so few Grievous x Reader fics out there. Sometimes you gotta write what you wanna read.
> 
> *EDIT: I realized those B2's sort of appeared outta nowhere. I've fixed that little detail so nobody thinks random droids are leaping out of the void.

The underbelly of Coruscant was your domain. Anything you could scrounge up for a quick credit you took. Other things—er, well, most things—you kept for yourself. Your partner in crime, an old, cobalt blue magnaguard droid who you'd oh so originally named Cobie, strode dutifully beside you as the two of you prepared your beat up antique of a ship for flight. You didn't know his serial number, and neither did he, so Cobie it was. He put off a lot of people, made them think you were with the Separatists, or worse—General Grievous. 

It worked out pretty great for you. People were afraid of you, and you weren't about to NOT live that lie. If they thought you were big boss tin can's messenger girl, who were you to tell them the truth? The truth hurt, after all. In this case, it'd hurt you. A lot. Frankly, you didn't need any of that noise. You got what you wanted by having Cobie there to help silently judge everyone. And also to electrocute them. Ah, the perks of knowing basic programming. 

As much as you loved Coruscant and all the dirtbags and cheapskates its lower levels harbored, there were other pawn shops on other worlds just waiting to be scammed. You placed the last crate of your belongings in the cargo area of your shuttle, dusting your hands in satisfaction. Your landlord wasn't getting a single credit outta you. Especially since you owed almost a year's worth of rent. Dunno how you got out of paying it for so long.

"Did we get it all, Cobie?" You called to the guard. As always, the droid remained eerily silent. It wasn't that Cobie couldn't talk—you'd installed a working vocal processor some time ago—it was that he just preferred not to. His chest optic had gone out during a short firefight some weeks ago, so you weren't quite accustomed to not being washed in crimson light when he looked at you and nodded, closing the door to your ex-house. 

"Awesome! Let's get outta here before Neblo comes by and asks for more money. Greedy bastard." You hissed. Your previous landlord sure was an ass about credits. Good thing you wouldn't have to deal with him ever again. 

Climbing into the vessel, you made your way to the singular pilot's seat, carelessly plopping down in it. The metal pivot that attached it to the rusty floor squealed in protest as your slight figure weighed it down. With a grimace, you made a mental note to take a look at that. 

Cobie entered after you, his magnetic feet keeping him firmly planted in place. He shut the ship's door and locked it, moving to stand dutifully behind you. 

"Ready to go, pal?" You asked, knowing he probably wouldn't have a response.

With a shuddering groan of overstressed metal, your old tub of a cargo ship sputtered to life, slowly easing itself off the ground. You didn't really have an idea of where you wanted to go, to be honest. Wherever you could find three-thousand year old relics would be fantastic, but that could be anywhere. You also needed someplace new to stay, since you kicked yourself out of your house before Neblo could. 

"Wonder how far I can get before we run outta fuel..." You thought aloud, blasting your hulking shuttle upward, completely ignoring the other flyers above.

Precariously dodging buildings by the skin of your teeth, and being pursued by a herd of policemen, you cackled maniacally, pushing your ship's engines to their limits, blasting through lower Coruscant and up into the sky like a photon missile. The shuttle rattled and moaned as its not-quite aerodynamic frame was forced to climb higher and higher, slicing through the metro planet's atmosphere like a rock through butter. 

You rushed by Republic cruisers, ignoring the hailing beacon each Star-destroyer sent you, demanding you identify yourself and explain just what you thought you were doing flying through an entire fleet all willy nilly.

"This is so much fun, I swear! My favorite part about leavin' a planet!" You told Cobie excitedly. 

The droid gripped the back of your seat in a display of uncertainty, saying, "(Y/n), I want you to know, I think you're insane."

It took a few seconds more before you could find a patch of open space, but once you did, you haphazardly swiped a hand over the navigational console, and slammed your fist on the hyperjump button. The blackness in front of you faded and spiraled into a vortex of blues and whites, illuminating the cabin of your ship in its ghostly glow. 

With a sigh, you leaned back, crossing your arms behind your head, a smile on your face. "Step one went smoothly," you said happily, looking up at your companion, "wouldn't you say, Cobie?"

Reverting back to silence, the guard performed a nod of agreement. You hummed; you'd have to take a peek at his processor again. You'd been trying to make him a little more alive by installing a personality core you'd viciously ripped from the head of a protocol droid you'd really liked once. The problem at the time was, while you loved the droid's mannerisms and his foreign accent, you weren't much for the protocol design. You lucked out when you scavenged a battlefield a few years back and found Cobie's mostly intact metal corpse. You'd been trying to make the personality core compatible, and sometimes, you really thought it was. Cobie could be very life-like, despite his quiet disposition. Other times, he behaved autonomously, reminding you that he was, no matter how much you denied it, still a robot. 

Your console bleeped at you, warning you that the ship was about to leave hyperspace because, one, it was practically older than the oldest dirt in the entire galaxy, and two, you really didn't have that much fuel to begin with. You watched through the viewport, calmly waiting to see where you'd be spat out—

Only to lurch forward and grip the helm like a thing possessed, forcing your ship to jerk to the right to avoid colliding with a volley of vulture droids. Laser bolts leaped the gap between a fleet of Separatist and Republic cruisers, lighting the cabin in streaks of blue and red. 

Your comm flashed and beeped, signaling that one of the colossal war vessels was hailing you. Unable to really answer, you yelled at Cobie to put the transmission through.

"Unidentified craft, this is General Grievous. state your name and intention or I'll have your ship blown to the next star system."

You felt your stomach drop to the rickety floor when you heard that haunting, synthetic voice. You'd much rather it be the Jedi. They'd at least give you a trial before they killed you for all the sins you'd committed.

"Uh-! This-this is (y/n) (l/n), and I ran out of fuel on my way to, um, some-WHERE!" You shouted, tugging the helm up to avoid another collision. "W-we're lost, and kinda runnin' on fumes–"

There was no response, but you yelped as your ship suddenly jerked to a halt, and began moving backward. You felt the blood drain from your entire body when you realized you were caught in a tractor beam. 

"Oh Force, oh Force, oh Force!" You panicked, leaping from your chair. You ran to throw on the armorweave jacket you definitely didn't steal from that asshat old man the other day and tugged on the gauntlets and shin guards from the bodies of like four different dead troopers because you'd wanted each piece to be a different color. Very quickly holstering two pistols and swinging an electrostaff you also totally didn't steal across your back, you prepared for the ship to land. 

You tried to take a few calming, deep breaths; inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth, over and over. You were fine, it was fine, everything was fine.

The ship rocked and settled with a heavy clunk, causing granulated rust and dirt to fall from the ceiling. You could see the inside of the hangar and the B1's lining up to meet you through the cockpit viewport, their raised blasters in plain sight. 

Needless to say, everything was actually not fine at all. 

"Open up!" Ordered the nasally voice of an OOM unit. 

You immediately complied, trying to look tough by swaggering out. Your façade was blatantly fake, but you refused to drop your awkward ants-in-your-pants walk. Cobie followed you out in a much more dignified fashion, clasping his deactivated electrostaff in one robotic fist.

A short silence hung in the air, and before anyone could say anything, you threw your hands high above your head.

"We surrender!" 

You ignored the clank of Cobie slapping himself in the face in utter are-you-kidding-me-ness.

The OOM seemed pretty down with this turn of events, saying, "Good, I didn't want to have to use force. You both are now General Grievous' prisoners and will cooperate or die. Now come with me."

You nod rapidly, "Yes sir, my good homeboy, we are pure beings who want no trouble from you guys."

"Search their ship," the OOM commands, nudging the barrel of its blaster to your back.

"Oh my flippity dippity could you not go through my ship? I have a lot of important to my heart things in there!" You shout as the OOM forces you to walk further and further away from your most prized possession. Which was everything you owned. "Please don't break anything!"

You were led down an exceedingly long hallway and into an elevator. Unfortunately, there was no cheery music to lift your panicky mood, so you tried to hum a little tune to help you relax, scooching closer to Cobie. His taller, broader frame always made you feel safe. He was your big, metal wall. That could talk. And fight like a boss. 

The elevator opened, and the OOM shoved you out just so you could walk down another exhaustingly long hallway and through another door, where a pair of super battle droids stood waiting for you. The prison block was, as you'd fearfully expected, bare. General Grievous didn't keep prisoners. He interrogated the people he caught, or used people as bait, or as a bargaining chip. He never kept them, and when he did, they died.

The both of you were quiet and cooperative, until the B2's attempted to separate you. Cobie responded to being pulled away by lashing out with a foot, striking one in the abdomen with crushing force, warping the gray plating and causing sparks to leap from between the paneling. The OOM and the other B2 trained their weapons on the magnaguard with every intention of killing him.

"No!" You shouted, jerking in the bigger droid's hold, "Don't! Please don't! Cobie, do what they say, please, just do what they say. I'll be okay, just please..." 

The guard seemed conflicted, weighing obedience over duty, before he conceded, allowing the damaged B2 to shove him into the cell furthest from your own.

Your weapons were confiscated, your wrists were cuffed, and you were roughly pushed into a cell. Well, you were more or less grabbed by your upper arm and thrown in. Remorselessly, the big, silver droid took its place beside your cell, a red ray shield blipping into existence, officially trapping you and sealing your fate.


	2. Job Interview... If You Can Call It That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years and thanks for the positive reception, everyone! :3 I'm glad people are enjoying it. This chappie's a lil scary. I mean, I don't think so, I tried to make it tense, but whatever.

To say you were scared was an almost insulting understatement. You'd taken shelter in the corner of your cell, where you'd curled into a quivering ball on the floor, your back to the wall, leaning your side into the adjacent wall. You couldn't wrap your arms around your shins thanks to the energy cuffs currently chafing the hell out of your wrists, so you left them to limply rest over your ankles, forehead to your knees.

This was it. This was how you died. Which really sucked. In all honesty, you probably deserved it. You were that person who laughed at funerals, literally took candy from babies, and once tripped a seventy year old woman down the steps because she was taking too long to walk up them. Yep. You were a terrible human being. Maybe if you'd known THIS would be your fate, you would've changed your shit ways long ago. Actually, you'd probably still be pretty rambunctious, but not as mischievous. Definitely you'd have stopped stealing. Maybe. You'd be a solid forty-two percent decent person. Yeah, forty-two was a good, strong number.

You leapt and squeaked when you heard the brigs’ doors slide open, followed by a sharp click-scrape on the smooth floor. It echoed ominously, and with each sound you pressed yourself harder and harder into the corner. Your shoulder was beginning to ache, but you didn't stop trying to make yourself more compact. Maybe if you tried hard enough you'd shrink and just disappear forever? That sounded dumb, curse you stupid panicked brain, that's dumb. 

You couldn't help peeking over your knee caps when you heard the footsteps pass your cell, and you caught a glimpse of fluttering gray. Grievous was known to wear capes like some kind of comic book super villain. Too bad there was no caped good guy with super strength and great hair, or a beautiful, hyper intelligent heroine to punch the lights out of everyone. Either or would be great, you'd kiss them for saving you regardless. 

A haunting silence settled over the prison block, creating a terrifying sense of suspense you didn't know if your thundering heart could handle. How could there possibly be people who weren't afraid of death? How could they handle this kind of atmosphere? Literally just the air alone was suffocating you, and you hadn't even met your captor yet. 

The click-scrape sounded again, and you tensed so hard you actually hurt yourself. You tried very hard not to whimper when you heard the rayshield fizzle out, then reactivate. You swore the temperature in the tiny space had dropped to freezing, because your blood ran cold in your veins. Your slight trembling really brought the illusion together. 

“Stand.” 

The order is biting and callous, laced with aggression and the promise of violence if you refused to comply. Limbs shaking uncontrollably, you heavily lean back into the wall as you slide upward against it, trying and failing to keep your head raised. Your bravado had long since been stomped out, leaving you with nothing to hide behind. 

“F-first off, I-I'm not with the Republic–” you immediately blurted like a moron, because that's exactly what someone who was with the Republic would say. 

“That droid,” he says, ignoring what you'd said, “where did you get it?”

You swallow thickly, “I-I found it,” you fought to keep your voice steady. You didn't want to appear completely weak. “A few years ago, on a battlefield. I w-was gonna sell him, but it's not everyday you find a functional magnaguard.” you tried to joke, mostly for your sake. If you could ease your nerves, maybe you could talk your way outta this.

“You found it.”

You bobbed your head in the positive. You'd yet to move your eyes from the floor, taking a second to glance at his feet. Long, curved front toes reminiscent of avian talons. More angular than sharp at the tip than you'd thought. Four shorter ones around the foot—for stability and climbing, your brain deduced. Shut up brain, this isn't build a bot, this is life or death. Notice something useful. 

“Am I to assume you not only reprogrammed it, but rebuilt it?” He rasped, sounding much less threatening than he had. 

So he'd noticed the off-blue that you'd tried to paint Cobie’s homemade legs. They didn't match, didn't even resemble his original legs. “I did, yes. He was missing everything from the waist down when I found him. I-I had to make my own replacements, since magnaguard parts aren’t exactly available to the public,” you inwardly chuckled, your nerves finally beginning to settle. This was going way better than you'd imagined. 

You sucked a short, startled breath through your nose when cold, sharp fingers suddenly grasped your jaw and forced your head up. Welp, time to retract that previous statement, this was going not great. Two piercing, golden eyes glared right through you, pinning you to the wall with their intensity alone. They weren't kidding when they said looking at General Grievous was like looking at Death himself. The man couldn't be more skeletal if he tried. 

“It does not behave like a magnaguard. Explain.” He demands, tilting your head this way and that, like you were some kind of animal for sale. An inspection before the slaughter, you morbidly thought. 

“I-I–I m-modified his processor,” you stuttered, unable to hold his gaze. You focus on his cloaked shoulder instead, continuing, “I implemented a personality core f-from a protocol droid, and i-installed a vocal processor–”

“Why?”

“Well–well–” you floundered, “well… I-I wanted to see if I could do it… a-and I did… s-so–”

“How long did it take you?” He interrupts.

You swallow again, trying to recall, “Um, well, uh… t-to completely fix everything on my own? Um… like, a month and a half? I-I could've done it faster, if I'd had the right tools and resour–”

“Silence,” he orders, and you immediately shut up. Had this been anyone else in the galaxy, you would've been flapping your gums for hours. Hoo-boy did you have so much to say about Cobie and how proud you were and how much of a mechanical feat he was. But, this was one person whose buttons you would stay far, far away from. You weren't even tempted to press any because you were certain each one led to your imminent demise. 

He lets you go, after a moment of quiet, clasping his hands behind his caped back, using his sheer size to intimidate you back into your corner, where you promptly squish yourself into the wall again. 

“I am feeling particularly benevolent this evening. You can thank the Republic and their recent losses for what I am about to say,” you had a bad feeling about this, “my magnaguards, though powerful, are still machines. They battle, they are damaged, they need repairs. My current repair crew,” he hisses with a touch of hostility. Oof, he definitely didn't like whoever those guys were, “is in need of a new member due to a rather unfortunate,” his twelve fingers flex and curl, and you didn't need another hint, “accident. So, miss…?”

You blink like an idiot before he almost literally knocked it into you, “Uh-! (Y/n)! (Y/n) (L/n).”

“Ah, yes–I remember now. I have a proposal for you, Miss (L/n),” he says, and the darkening of his tone did not bode well with you. 

You were afraid to prompt him. “O-okay…?” 

“You will work for me as a field mechanic, or,” his sharp fingertips return to your jawline. He hasn't even moved, how did he suddenly look so much larger? He draws a line across your cheek with one claw, not enough to draw blood, but it stings, leaving a red scratch in its wake, “I will personally see to it that you and your droid are never heard from again.”

Well. That didn't leave you with a whole lot of options, now, did it? 

Without really even thinking about it, you hurriedly say, “I-I'll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I made him a bit too chill, but I needed him in a good mood in order to hire you without incident. Those'll come later. ;3
> 
> Thanks for reading, tell me what you think if ya want. :D


	3. Sweet New Dorm Heck Ye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this took to get up, I hope everyone had a good holiday!

He hadn't been lying when he said he'd felt benevolent. With his recent successes came a sense of satisfaction and pride, something General Grievous hadn't had the pleasure of experiencing for some time. He felt like a general again, like the undefeatable strategist he knew he was. He felt good, and it reflected in his speech and actions. Capturing you had been a direct result of this. It had been a rare act of mercy not to blast your old clunky ship to scrap metal, as was sparing your life after taking you and your droid hostage.

Originally, when he came down to the brig, he was going to interrogate you and then end you. The reports stated you'd had a droid with you, and not just some droid; you had one of his old magnaguards. What's more, you somehow managed to take out its previous processor, install one made for a completely different droid, and then transferred the combat programming Grievous had written himself into the new processor. You'd also ripped out the old vocalizer and replaced it with the protocol droid’s, in addition to hand-crafting a pair of legs for the old thing. 

He'd been silently impressed when he went to take a look at the guard for himself. Instead of standing at attention like he was used to, he was surprised to see the droid on the floor, displaying some rather organic behavioral patterns. It had its elbows on its crossed legs, tiredly rubbing above the optics, back to a wall. It glanced at him unblinkingly and for a moment the general thought it was going to say something. When it put its crimson gaze back to the floor, the cyborg left it be, moving to your cell with every intention of squeezing any and all information you had. Not about the Republic, but about your bot.

The satisfied feeling that had settled over the kaleesh was refreshed when he saw just how terrified of him you were. It never ceased to amuse him how his mere presence caused those around him to wither. Sometimes he was offended by it. In this instance, he reveled in your fear, used it to his advantage, manipulated your decision to suit his needs. Your mechanical talents were going to serve him quite well—if he could stomp out your apparent perkiness, that is. You shouldn't have bounced back that quickly. Perhaps he'd been too lenient. An attitude like yours needed to be reined in if you were to work under him. Ventress already caused him enough trouble, he didn't want to deal with another mouthy woman.

He let you sink back into your fear-corner. Exiting the cell, he addressed the two super battle droids acting as guards. “Take the woman and her droid to the residential sections and assign a room to them. They are no longer prisoners.”

That had been the last time he saw you, and it would definitely not be the last.

-

The walk from the brig to the area where most of the organic staff stayed was exhausting. On top of the fact that you'd been captured, held against your will, and then questioned under emotionally distressing conditions, you were, needless to say, feeling pretty dead tired right now. 

You knew these Separatist cruisers were big, but you really never realize just how big until you had to walk the length of one. You couldn't feel excited about your new job right now, so anything to distract you was welcome. Speaking of distracting thoughts, why had Grievous let you keep Cobie? 

After he'd played twenty questions with you, you'd expected him to have your buddy bot scrapped. Speaking of scrap—

“Psst! Hey! Hey super guy!” You sort of whispered, “Hey, do you know what happened to my ship? It kinda had everything I've ever owned on it.”

The big gray droid remained silent, clunking just ahead of you. One track processor, huh? You'd never taken apart a super battle droid before, so the way their brains worked was unknown to you. You'd plundered your fair share of battlefields, but it just never occurred to you that hey, look at that big silvery droid over there, let's figure out why its head is squashed into its torso.

“I am certain they've taken our weapons. I can't be sure if our other belongings have been spared,” Cobie said, keeping his red optics forward, “it's likely you will not be allowed to have many items for yourself. The general will probably have everything else destroyed.” 

“Destroyed?!” You repeated, fatigue leaving you in an instant, “I was born and raised on that tub and I will die on it, Cobie! Those are MY things! I stole them fair and square!”

“I believe you are exaggerating again, (Y/n).”

Your hands, which had been freed of their bonds, flew to your chest dramatically, “Wha–me? My dearest Cobie, I have never partook of the hyperboles. How dare you even accuse me of such–”

“We're here.”

You blinked, pausing mid-sentence, realizing the B2 who'd escorted you was nowhere to be seen and the two of you were standing in front of a flat, gray door and a keypad. You regarded said keypad with a thoughtful hum.

“Cobie what's the open button? Or should I press all of them at once and see what happens? Cobie?” Your magnaguard had seemingly disappeared, and you looked all around the dully lit hallway. “Cobes, where did you–?”

“(Y/n).”

You gasped loudly, flailing your arms in a very definitely threatening way, shouting, “I'll karate chop you! Oh hi Cobie, how'd you get in the room?” 

The guard didn't bother answering. You'd figure out that the door was automatic and only locked from the outside eventually. Or he'd tell you at some point, but right now, he really just wanted to power down. 

“Wow. This sucks.” You commented, walking into your new room. There was a stiff-looking mattress shoved into a nook built into the metal wall, a small storage trunk, a currently empty closet, and another door that, once you opened it, revealed a bathroom containing the essentials. “No bathtub? Goddammit. I was really looking forward to a good long bath after all this stress.” 

“You'll be fine without one,” Cobie said, taking the empty corner to the left of the door, “you spend too much time in the bath anyway.”

“Don't sass your momma, Cobie. I will take three hour baths if I want.” 

He held up his hands in a pacifying manner, taking a seat on the floor, crossing his long legs. “I suggest you get some sleep, (Y/n). I believe you're going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

You flopped onto the mattress, face-first, into a pillow that'd been sitting on that bed since the dawn of time because yuck was that stale-smelling. “I'm honestly just really happy he didn't kill us.”

“As am I. Now go to sleep.” 

“Hey, hey Cobes?”

“Yes, (Y/n)?”

“Do you think pigeons dream?”

“... What's a pigeon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... do they?


	4. Nerd Squad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote an extra long one to make up for the wait. 
> 
> In case anyone is curious about an update schedule, there won't be one, so... updates are gonna be sporadic. Yay... :'D

The ceiling was unfamiliar when you blinked away your bleary vision. Gray and dull, the room around you dark. You shot up, gasping as your thin blanket spilled onto the floor and tied itself around your ankles. You braced for impact, crying out when two somethings clamped around your upper arms.

“Relax, (Y/n), it's me, it's alright,” soothed the familiar voice of your magnaguard, “calm yourself, it's okay.” 

You let him lift you back to your feet, leaning into his larger frame until you caught your balance. “Cobie–? Where–?”

He answered before you could fully form your question, “We're on a Separatist flagship. We were hired by General Grievous, remember?” 

Yesterday’s events flooded to the front of your mind. Absently, your hand found your cheek and you hissed. The scratch was still there. That had really happened. Everything you'd hoped was just a nightmare was real. 

“Aw Force,” you cursed, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms. You sighed heavily, doing a short spin, walking a little unsteadily to the bathroom. 

Thumbing the lightswitch on, you took a look at yourself in the mirror and grimaced at the red line that marked your jaw from just below your right ear to the corner of your mouth. 

Not. Cool.

You hadn't any reason to dislike General Grievous before. He'd been a beacon of overwhelming power and destruction. He was someone to be feared and avoided at all costs, but you'd never disliked him. If anything, you respected him as the very successful and terrifying military officer he was. That didn't mean you'd go out of your way to tango with him, Maker no. That was a death sentence. However, this scratch only served as kindling to an angry ember. What an ass, scratching you like that! There was no need to add pain to the terror he'd instilled yesterday. His point had been crystal clear. Friggin rude.

You literally jumped when Cobie knocked on the bathroom door. Stepping down off the toilet seat with a hand to your chest, you open the door. Cobie greeted you with his usual blank, red stare.

“There is a droid outside.” He stated shortly. 

You sighed, slipping out of the bathroom; you just woke up, couldn't they give you ten minutes to get yourself together? You'd slept in your armor, which left you feeling sore all over. You hadn't thought to throw it off after your nightly conversation about whether or not pigeons were real creatures and what exactly they were. 

You keyed the sliding door open, confronted by the long, slender face of a B1. It was unarmed, but held a datapad in its hand. Its head bobbed up from said datapad to regard you with its beady little optics.

“(Y/n) (L/n)?” It asked.

“Yep, that's me,” you confirmed, “to whom might I owe the pleasure?” You drawled sarcastically. Ugh you didn't even have your hairbrush… you probably looked like a disaster.

Fortunately, the battle droid didn't comment on your disheveled appearance, if it even noticed. It also ignored your sour mood, saying, “General Grievous has ordered me to take you to starboard hangar three.” 

You groaned, slapping a hand over your face and dramatically dragging it downward, “Can you wait for like a few minutes?”

It shook its narrow head, “The general said–”

“UGH… ffffffine… lead the way.” You relented irritably, but paused, “Uh, I can bring my buddy, right?” You asked, jabbing a thumb at Cobie, who'd curiously poked his head out to listen. 

The B1 gave you its best rendition of a shrug, “I guess? He was specific, but not that specific.”

“Welp, looks like you're comin’ with me, Cobie boy!” You cheered, hooking your elbow with his own metal one.

If he could roll his optics, he would have. “Oh yay, lucky me.”

“What'd I say about sass?”

-

The walk was long, as it had been the first time. You didn't think it would feel any shorter, no matter how many times you would have to walk this route. If you even remembered it. The length of your trek gave you ample time to think about the events that had transpired within the last twenty-four hours.

You'd been captured and forced to work for the supreme commander of the separatist droid armies. Your friend had been spared along with you for some unfathomable reason. The only thing you really cared about right now was whether or not your ship was in this starboard hangar three, and if all your stuff was still on it. And, to top that all off, you were starving. Like actually starving. When was the last time you ate? 

It was all still very strange to you. General Grievous had let you live just because you tinkered with a dead robot and got lucky. Either he was really good at recognizing untapped potential, or he'd been very drunk. 

“So, Mister Droid, sir,” you addressed, tapping a tan shoulder, “do you know when they serve breakfast? Or food in general? Or like, if my ship is still intact?”

“The cafeteria is open at all times,” he provided, “but, uh, I don't know about your ship. Sorry.”

“One mystery solved at least.”

The hangar’s expanse made you nod and whistle in appreciation. Whoever made these boats sure did a great job. Your mechanical mind was already taking off the panels and rooting through the electronics underneath. That sounded kinda unintentionally suggestive. Darn it. 

As you took in just how big the hangar was, your eyes landed on your beat up old ship and you gasped dramatically. The B1 halted quite suddenly when you squealed girlishly and ran ahead of it, slapping your upper body against an old cargo cruiser. 

“This is normal, I promise,” Cobie assured.

“...If… if you say so.” 

“Cobie look! Look it's still here and it's still in one piece! She's a real trooper, huh? You're such a good ship, yes you are~!” You cooed, petting the rusted plating affectionately. 

Helplessly, the battle droid looked up at the magnaguard. “Are you sure–?”

“I swear this is normal.”

“O-okay, uh… um, Miss (L/n)? Could I please finish escorting you–?”

You cut him off by rapidly waving your arm at him, “Yeah yeah yeah just gimme like five minutes. Don't ruin my moment bro.”

Synthesizing an exasperated sigh, Cobie went to physically retrieve you. He pried you off your ship and tucked you under one arm like a football. He returned to the bewildered B1’s side, who could only offer a silent nod and continued walking.

“Cobie this is cruel and unusual. I will ground you, young man!” You protested loudly, squirming in his secure hold.

“Hollow threats, ‘mother.’” He poked back, keeping pace with the very awkward-feeling battle droid.

“Anywaaaaaay,” the B1 directed you and your roboson to a small group of three: one other human, an older man who regarded your approach with curious amusement, an astromech droid painted in aged purple and white, and a verpine, currently hunched over the blown engine of a vulture droid. The B1 stopped just in front of the trio, “There. I’ve done my job.”

As it began to leave you waved as best you could from your present position. “I liked him. We should tip him next time we see him.”

“I'm putting you down now.” 

“What do we have here? You that new recruit we were told about?” The man asked, hands to his hips. His tone was light and playful even, slightly accented. You recognized it as Coruscanti. 

After properly getting back on your feet, you threw a friendly hand out, “I mean I guess, sure! Name's (Y/n), and you are…?”

“Monsen Krift, but everybody calls me Krift. Well, ‘cept the general, that is.” He joked, slapping and firmly shaking your hand. He gestured to the insectoid who'd yet to acknowledge you, “That there’s Two. Can't say their actual name, so we just call ‘em Two. Say hi, Two,” he received an irritable chitter in response. “Fine, be that way. And this lovely lady,” he nodded down at the astromech, “is Gizmo.”

The droid bleeped happily, fixing her optic on you, then made a series of digital noises you couldn't decipher, but decided to interpret as positive. 

You smiled brightly. When was the last time you interacted with people who didn't hate your guts the second you walked into a room? “It's nice to meet you all. Oh! This is my son, Cobalt von Sarcastic Pants–Cobie for short, if you please.”

Krift laughed heartily, “You're a perky thing, you are. How'd the General get a hold of you, I wonder?”

You shrugged, “Eh, y’know, he charmed me in the only way he can–through fear and intimidation of course, because why would he talk to someone in a civilized manner?” 

“Heh, askin’ the real questions, you are.”

“I'll be honest though, when he said repair crew, I kinda imagine more than just three people,” You admitted, crossing your arms, “he mentioned an ‘accident’?”

Krift’s expression fell, and Two paused for a moment, their antennae drooping slightly. 

“Yeah… there's a reason there's so few of us.” Krift said solemnly, casting his brown eyes on the floor. Gizmo tilted downward and bwooed sadly.

You blinked once, not realizing how insensitive that sounded. I did mention you weren't exactly an expert on social cues or what being a good person meant? Just in case, I'll leave this here: you weren't an expert on social cues or what being a good person meant. You were still working on that solid forty-two percent, remember? Now might be a good time to start. 

“Uh… I'm… sorry…?” You tried, floundering. 

Krift exhaled, “No need to apologize. Wasn't your fault. That Kary, she mouthed off one too many times.”

You sweated, “D-did she?” Oh lord, you mouthed off all the time! What the hell were you gonna do? Your personality was too awesome to just keep your mouth shut! 

The man nodded, “Here's a lesson for your first day, (Y/n). NEVER refer to the general as a droid. Ever.”

“Is he… not one…?” You ventured. His eyes were a dead give away that no, he wasn't fully mechanical. You knew he wasn't, but just to be completely, totally, one-hundred percent sure. 

“He's a cyborg,” Two answered this time. The verpine had yet to look away from their work, but they'd been listening close enough, “a highly advanced one at that. I'd love to meet the engineers behind him. I have a few suggestions for them, actually, if they ever plan to make another.” 

“Okay then,” you replied very unsurely. 

Krift slapped your shoulder and directed you toward the busted vulture, “How’s about we let (Y/n) here take a look at that, Two? You've been at it for an hour, let's see what she can do, huh?” 

Finally the alien looked up at him with a glare, “Are you suggesting I can't do this myself?”

“I'm suggesting you take a break.” Krift replied passively. 

The two of them held eye-contact for an uncomfortably long moment, so you kind of shoved Two out of the way and got to work inspecting the damage for yourself. 

You scoffed, “Aw, what? This is easy! Look, you just–you don't even have the right tools, what the hell were you doin’ my buggy friendo?”

“I will actually smash your face.” They threatened and for a moment you were almost convinced. 

You laughed openly then, asking Gizmo to retrieve the right tool for the job. You got so engrossed in your work, you forgot about all the things that may or may not still be in your ship or that you were fixing a death machine for the king of the death machines. 

Maybe this job wouldn't be as bad as you'd feared it would? Stars above you hoped not. You liked your new coworkers, which was weird, because you were usually a one woman show who just happened to have a spoopy droid with her. Well, it wouldn't hurt to work on that optimism either. Everything would be fine.

Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea I was just typing and Idk take these dorks.
> 
> Also, I have no idea if verpines can actually speak Basic. I read a lot about them because I wanted the crew to be diverse, but the internets never mentions whether or not they can speak it. :T
> 
> Also, Two's a "they" because the smartypants verpines are hermaphrodites and Two doesn't identify with a gender, so they're a they. :3
> 
> There's a link to my Tumblr on my profile if anyone wants to talk about General Hotpants or Star Wars in general.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading~! :D Idk what I'm doing and I have also changed this end note because I accidentally deleted the other one yay! :D


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